Echoes

by Laura K. Curtis

  Nash and Lexie had headed back down to HSE headquarters, leaving Mac and Callie alone. Mac would have preferred to stay in the suite, but Callie claimed she needed jeans. Which he guessed she did, as the skirt she was wearing would trip her in a chase. Besides, just looking at her in it reminded him of how her skin had felt beneath his hands as he’d stripped the skirt from her body. Not conducive to concentration.

  Nash had brought a shoulder holster for Mac, which was his preferred carry, but in the August heat he couldn’t very well wear a jacket. At the moment, he had the pistol stashed in a holster at the small of his back, which was great for concealment but made for an almost impossible draw. He’d have to pick up a T-shirt big enough to hide the gun if he wore it at his waist.

  Mac considered shopping torturous, even without the added stress of knowing they could be attacked at any moment. The crowds thronging Times Square hid them but could also hide their pursuers.

  “How can you stand living here?” he asked after a few blocks. Callie had explained that in New York City, the north-south blocks ran twenty to a mile and that, since the store was only half a mile from the hotel, walking was the best option. But in the last quarter mile, he figured he’d seen—and been seen by—more people than lived on entire Army bases. In the high season, St. Martin had been crowded, but this, this was intolerable.

  Callie slanted a look up at him, managing to keep one eye on the street before her. “I keep forgetting you’re not from here. Chappaqua, where I live, is nothing like the city. Actually, most of the state isn’t like the city, and even most of the city isn’t as bad as this.” Still moving forward, she waved a hand at the crowd. “A good half of these people are tourists. Penn Station, where the trains come in, Times Square, the Port Authority bus terminal—there are all kinds of draws for this area.

  “And then, this is the garment district. FIT—the school for fashion—is just a few blocks down from here, and there are actual manufacturers and designers as well as students, professors, shopkeepers . . . all people who don’t keep nine-to-five schedules. And they all smoke, so they have to stand out on the street for at least ten minutes every couple hours. Foot traffic here is much heavier than it is in other parts of town.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. You didn’t see swarms like this down in Tribeca, where Nash’s office was, did you?”

  “It was late.” But he hadn’t. As they’d driven through the neighborhood, he’d noticed only a few stores. Most of the buildings seemed residential, with some galleries, a couple of offices, and the occasional bodega. “Is that the kind of neighborhood you live in?”

  “No. My house is on half an acre of land. The people around me have fenced yards, barking dogs, fruit trees, fancy gardens, the whole suburban package.”

  Mac had a hard time imagining such a thing existing mere minutes from where they wound their way through the human traffic jam.

  Inside Macy’s, which Callie insisted was the most efficient place to go, since they could get everything they needed in one place, the situation was worse.

  They started in the women’s department, where Callie wanted to find a particular brand of jeans.

  “If I get the ones I usually wear,” she explained, “I don’t need to try them on. We can just buy them and go.” But she couldn’t find her size and couldn’t find a salesperson. Other women, acting as if Armageddon was approaching and they needed just the right outfit, pushed by them, twice jostling Mac so hard he put his hands on his back, letting his fingers rest on the Sig.

  Finally, Callie got her jeans, and they headed to the men’s department, where it took him all of ten seconds to find a T-shirt. While he was paying, however, the cell in Callie’s purse rang. She walked away to take the call in private, pretending to sort through a rack of fall jackets about ten feet from Mac and the salesman, her head ducked down as she listened to the caller. A man approached her, and Mac automatically reached back for his gun, but the guy seemed intent on the clothing and didn’t follow when she moved away.

  The salesman took Mac’s money and handed back his change and the bagged shirt. Mac glanced down to complete the transaction. Only a second, but when he looked back, Callie had disappeared. Every muscle in his body tensed, locking him into place, only his eyes able to move, scanning the area.

  The man who had taken Callie’s spot by the jackets had been joined by his wife, and they argued quietly, the wife waving her arms. A teenaged shoplifter fingered a slinky nylon shirt with a skateboarding logo on it, glancing surreptitiously from side to side. A woman held a sweater up to check the size against the shoulders of her harried-looking son. Two Japanese men peered into a glass case whose contents Mac couldn’t determine from a distance.

  Where the hell was Callie? They couldn’t have found her, taken her, in the scant window his distraction had afforded. He strode toward the spot he’d last seen her, his scar itching like the devil. Black shadows danced at the edge of his vision. He paused by a rack of sweaters and drew his gun, draping the new shirt in its white plastic bag over his hand to conceal the weapon.

  He stepped back into the aisle and saw her. She was kneeling next to a shelf of jeans, apparently tying her shoe. But as he strode toward her, he realized her hands were shaking too badly to maneuver the laces. He pushed her fingers aside and made quick work of the mangled knot, then rose, drawing her close and wrapping his arms around her. She clung, and he could feel the trembles running like chills through her body. He didn’t speak, letting the physical contact assure them both that she was safe.

  “She was crying,” Callie said after several breaths, and he could hear the rasp of tears in her own voice. “Erin never cries.”

  Mac stroked the silky waves of her hair. “We’ll get her back. I promise.” She nodded against his shoulder. “What did they want?”

  She didn’t answer, and he could feel her decide to lie to him. He refused to let her, pushing her slightly away from him to stare down into her tear-damp eyes. “Don’t. Whatever they said, whatever their threats, you’re better off with my help. With Nash’s, too. You know it.”

  ***

  When he stood as he did now, a bulwark between her and danger, she absolutely believed him. But she believed Sonny Juarez, too, when he described with gusto how he planned to cut off Erin’s fingers, cauterizing each wound so she wouldn’t bleed to death too soon. This would be Erin’s fate, he promised, should Callie bring either Mac or Nash to the meeting John Lewis would arrange.

  Remembering Lewis, at least, gave her something she could safely tell Mac.

  “He said it was John Lewis who hired him, who wanted to meet. He didn’t set a time or anything, but told me to gather any evidence my father might have left, that John would want all of it, along with the picture I showed him in St. Martin, in exchange for Erin.”

  “You know that’s an excuse, right? Lewis couldn’t care less about a photo you could have copied dozens of times or some nonexistent evidence. It’s just a way to force you into killing range.”

  His harsh tone stiffened Callie’s spine. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “No.” Mac’s voice lost its cold edge. “You’re not. But you’re frightened for your friend. The guy who called—did you find out who it was?”

  “Sonny Juarez. He seemed to think I should recognize his name.”

  “Because he knows you’ve spoken to Nash. Remember what Nash said about Juarez specializing in over-the-top killings?”

  How could she forget? She nodded.

  “Message murders are terrorism in its most basic form. And terrorism works, which is why it’s always been part of human societies and always will be, no matter how hard we try to eradicate it. Scared people, no matter how smart they are, don’t act rationally, or even in their own best interest. You’re not an idiot, but you’re also not used to dealing with the Sonny Juarezes of the world.”

 
“And you are.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he inclined his head in response. Staring at his dark features, Callie realized anew how far out of her depth she was. Standing in the men’s department of an enormous department store discussing murder, kidnapping, and terrorism hadn’t been in her life plan.

  “What if I make the wrong decision?”

  “You won’t.” Mac’s opaque eyes revealed nothing, but there was a solidity to that, an obscure comfort. “Lewis and his men are going to try to rush you. It’s another terror tactic—isolate the subject, then remove time for consideration and reason. To combat that, you have to get ahead of them. Plan your reaction. Work out what path you’ll take, what lines you will and won’t cross, regardless of what they do.”

  She understood the inference: the line she should never cross would be the one that separated her from him. But she couldn’t make that promise, so she looked away, excusing the move by leaning down to pick up the shopping bag with her new jeans and red empire-waist shirt. She didn’t like the style on her, but the fabric fell loosely to her hips, providing inconspicuous cover for a weapon at her waist.

  Mac let the lack of response pass. “Let’s get back to the hotel,” he said, plucking the bag from her hand and consolidating her purchases with his own.

  “Yeah, okay.” Callie started to move toward the exit, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. When she stopped, he let his fingers trail lightly down her bare arm, sparking fires beneath her skin, until he could lace their fingers together. Then he brought her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across her palm.

  “We’ll get her out.”

  He couldn’t guarantee Erin’s safety, and Callie recognized both the promise and the physical contact as forms of manipulation designed to ensure her cooperation, but the steadiness of his gaze added force to the words, and in spite of the nagging, logical voice in the back of her mind, the constriction in her chest eased a bit.

  Outside the artificially maintained environment of the department store, the weather had shifted to match Callie’s mood. Storm clouds hung low, and heavy and damp air muted the sounds of passing cars and people. Pedestrians peered upward as they rushed along, hoping to reach their destinations without getting soaked, their contagious anxiety infecting others. Even Callie, who quite liked the rain, found herself hurrying, and noticed Mac’s strides becoming choppier as well. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  The first drops fell when they were half a block from the hotel, quickly increasing to a deluge. Lightning shot through the gloom just as they stepped into their suite. Callie jumped, tension getting the better of her, and Mac gripped her shoulder briefly in reassurance.

  “I’m gonna nuke myself a cup of coffee,” he said. “You want one?”

  “Sure.” Maybe the caffeine would kick her brain into gear, because she had some serious thinking to do. As of Juarez’s phone call, she had four hours to ditch Mac, at which point Juarez would call back with instructions.

  The microwave pinged, and Mac handed her a steaming cup of coffee. His own he set on the desk while he booted the laptop and logged into the program allowing him access to the HSE system. He didn’t speak, and Callie wondered whether he was deliberately giving her space and time to consider her options. She settled on the couch and watched him work.

  After a few minutes, he seemed to forget her entirely. His focus on the computer deepened, and his coffee sat untouched as he muttered, tapping keys and clicking furiously through page after page of information. He’d run a hand through his hair, as was his custom, and it stood up in ragged clumps. The muttering and the hair gave him something of a mad-scientist appearance, negated by the muscles bunching where his neck and shoulders met and the preternatural concentration he exhibited.

  Although he ignored her, Callie couldn’t avoid the knowledge that all his effort, the danger to which he’d subjected himself, was on her behalf. He could have left at any time. Sure, he’d have some awkward questions to answer from the gendarmes regarding Nikki’s murder and his own disappearance, but they would cause him no real difficulties, especially with Nash on his side.

  A bell sounded on the computer, and a message window opened on Mac’s screen. Callie couldn’t read it from her position, so when Mac cursed at its contents she rose and pulled a chair over to the desk.

  “NICOLE LEWIS DNA SHOWS SAME PATERNITY AS OTHER VICS. BOTH PARENTS SAME AS CALLIOPE PEARSON.”

  “How in the hell is that possible?” Mac muttered. “We know Ava was Nikki’s mother.”

  “No,” Callie said slowly, remembering the pictures of a slender and gorgeous Ava mere months after Nikki’s birth. “Ava left the island, remember? Maybe she got her child the same way my parents did. The whole affair and separation story gave her an excuse to disappear so no one would notice she never got hugely pregnant or gave birth. She came back with an infant she claimed as her own, and no one thought to question it.”

  “Okay, but why fake an affair? Why not just argue a lot, then separate? Wouldn’t you think Lewis would want to claim his own kid, not allow people to think his wife had cheated on him?”

  “There’s still something missing,” Callie agreed. She stared at the words on the screen. “She was my sister.”

  Mac shut the laptop and turned to face her. He didn’t touch her, but the steadiness of his gaze had an almost tangible weight.

  “We’ve always known the two of you shared a heritage.”

  “Yes, but to have both parents . . . It seems so much closer, somehow. Like we could have been raised together.” What would it have been like to have had a sister, someone close to her own age with whom she could share all the joys and sorrows of her life?

  “But you weren’t. For which you should be damned grateful. Christ, it’s no wonder Nikki was so screwed up. A mother who claimed her as her illegitimate daughter but never actually carried her, a father who knew she was his but didn’t recognize it publicly, and a brother who probably hated her for having the genes he didn’t and for taking half his inheritance: the ideal family. No surprise Nikki couldn’t tell the truth to save her life.”

  “You think you failed her.”

  “I know I failed her. I always wondered why the hell she married me, but I never asked. I figured it was at least half to piss off big brother, but it never even occurred to me she might have been afraid. I should have listened better, watched more carefully.”

  “Juarez gave me a deadline.” The words were involuntary, but she felt no regret when they popped out. Whatever might happen, Erin had a better chance with Mac’s help, and Callie couldn’t stand the idea of becoming another “should have” in his future.

  “A deadline.” He didn’t sound surprised.

  “By six, I’m supposed to shed you and any trackers.” She remembered Juarez’s description of what would become of Erin if she didn’t and couldn’t repress a shudder. Mac reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. The sensation was becoming too familiar, far too easy to accept, but she needed the comfort too much to pull away. “He’ll call back then and give me specific instructions.”

  ***

  Her hands were shaking. No doubt she already regretted telling him about the meeting. Mac couldn’t imagine why she’d confessed. He’d just finished admitting how completely incompetent he’d been with Nikki, how he’d been unable to protect her, and Callie chose that moment to trust him with her own life and that of her roommate? He’d never understand women.

  But whatever twisted female logic lay behind the decision, Callie had put her faith in him. And he wasn’t about to let her down. He checked his watch.

  “That gives us a little under three hours. Can I call Nash?”

  She swallowed, weighing her options. “Do you think that’s the right move? Juarez was . . . adamant about not involving anyone else.”

  “I do. Nash has the manpower, and he knows Juarez.
More important, he knows Falcone. This setup is too elaborate for Lewis to manage on his own, which means Falcone is involved at least peripherally, and I have no idea about the scope of his influence. But this is your ball game; you call the shots.”

  Callie examined him, her dark eyes giving no indication of her thoughts. He’d never met a woman so hard to read. As he waited, he found himself recalling the expression in those coffee eyes when he’d lain naked beneath her. He forced the image away—she needed to see him focused on the case, not sidetracked by memories of pleasure. But he couldn’t prevent his body’s reaction, the tiny zing of anticipation. He wasn’t done with Calliope Pearson. Not by a long shot.

  Evidently, he succeeded in masking his thoughts because after an interminable moment, she nodded. “Call him, then. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “Give me an hour,” Nash said once Mac explained the situation. “I’m in the middle of something that may prove useful.”

  “No problem.” Mac hung up the sat phone and met Callie’s eyes. “He’s in, but he’s working on something and can’t get here right away.”

  “Okay.” She rose and collected the shopping bag from by the door. “I’m going to change. Be right back.” She stepped into the bedroom and shut the door, and Mac’s mind followed her, imagining her stripping off the skirt and tee, until he yanked it back.

  He reopened the computer and logged into HSE’s databases. Nash had provided him with a password that could be used only from the laptop. When Mac logged in, the system automatically generated a second password, which was sent to the sat phone. He had to use yet another code to collect it from the message bank on the phone and enter it on the laptop in order to gain access.

  Once he’d finished entering all the appropriate codes, Mac began checking on properties owned, or used, by Falcone. Nash had mentioned the man’s homes, but he wasn’t looking for houses. If Falcone or one of his men had Erin stashed somewhere, it wouldn’t be in an upscale residential area. It would be a factory, an office park, a half-deserted slum.